


Over Cloud and Under Cloud

by khorazir



Series: Over/Under [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his Fall, Sherlock travels the world to destroy what remains of James Moriarty's criminal empire. When things don't go according to plan and he finds himself in desperate need of a discreet means of travel, cue MJN Air ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is actually a spin-off inspired by a line in one of my other fics, [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977), in which Sherlock refers to the strange travel arrangement described in more detail here.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: non-explicit references to torture

Whoever had coined the name “Frankfurt Hahn Airport” had a) never actually looked at a map to gauge the relative distance between the city of Frankfurt and the airfield, b) been suffering from delusions of grandeur, or c) been trying to sell the location for more than it was worth. As he watched the remote ex-military airport draw nearer, an accumulation of converted barracks established during or shortly after the last war and more recent buildings, Sherlock surmised the naming had indeed been some fairly clever advertising coup to increase the location’s marketability. There was little likeness to Frankfurt International Airport, the huge and desperately busy area south of the city of Frankfurt, one of the largest airports in Europe. He had arrived there less than three weeks ago from southern France and had immediately found himself reminded of Heathrow.

Hahn was ... well, not Heathrow, obviously, and definitely neither metropolitan nor centrally located. The coach from Frankfurt’s main train station had taken about two hours to reach it. Two hours of utter, crushing boredom Sherlock had spent struggling with a patchy internet connection while the vehicle crept along congested motorways riddled by traffic works where nobody was actually working, and curving country roads, towns and villages strung along them consecutively getting smaller. There hadn’t even been a train link. Sherlock would definitely have preferred a fast ICE connection to the snail-like coach, and one of those special 'silent carriages' to sitting between a group of boisterous law students off for a weekend of partying on Mallorca, two middle-aged German couples complaining across the aisle to each other about traffic jams and stupid drivers, and the English ex-Airforce pilot snoring in his seat. The two Korean girls on their two week Europe round-trip sketching each other had been the most interesting and least annoying of the bunch.

Judging by the array of recent buildings and smooth new roads, the airport was thriving despite its location, profiting from the boom of cheap inter-European flights and the small airlines providing them. Still, it was a far cry, in looks as well as atmosphere, from posh, international Frankfurt with its busy stock-market, international fairs and banking businesses, and its glass-fronted skyscrapers that had engendered the nickname “Mainhattan”.

A far cry from danger, too, Sherlock hoped as he alighted from the coach, wincing slightly when the strap of his messenger bag, the only piece of luggage he was carrying, scraped across one of the cuts on his shoulders. Shifting the bag until the pain was bearable and hoping that the aggravated wound would not reopen and stain his clothes, he set out towards the departures section of the airport building.

The coach had been a last minute booking, as had the charter flight to Copenhagen he was about to embark on. Everything to get him out of the country quickly and inconspicuously, made possible by his brother’s influence. Sherlock had loathed having to call upon Mycroft’s help, but in this instance it had been unavoidable. Mycroft had had to interfere because his little brother had messed up, had managed to get himself captured and almost killed.

Sherlock’s latest venture in his solitary hunt for the remainders of James Moriarty’s vast criminal network had been an attempt at sabotage. A group of hackers comfortably ensconced in a townhouse in Frankfurt’s rather upmarket suburb of Bockenheim had been next on his list. While certainly no big names in the hierarchy of Jim’s now crumbling empire, they nevertheless had occupied a crucial position in linking various sub-organisations and providing IT-services for their special needs.

Sherlock had attempted to disrupt their services, and he hadn’t succeeded. In fact, the attempt had failed spectacularly due to a combination of misinformation (not shoddy research, he had done his research, meticulously; the information had simply been insufficient and partially wrong) and unfortunate circumstance (bad luck one could say if one believed in such things, wrong place at the wrong time). Unimportant how it had come to pass, it had landed Sherlock in captivity by said hackers. Unprepared for dealing with an intruder but nevertheless creative and quick on the uptake, they had interrogated him roughly and mercilessly for information. The results were cuts on his back and shoulders, a couple of cracked or at least severely bruised ribs, bruises on his upper body and a deep cut on his forehead from where he had initially been knocked out with the butt of a handgun. The venture had nearly cost him his life. With luck, he had been able to retain that, but had lost the anonymity so vital for his dangerous task. His cover, carefully constructed ever since he had left London, had been blown. He had had to tell them something, hadn’t he? And rather feed them this lie, elaborate and precious, than his other secrets.

They had not managed to find out his true identity. He counted this a small blessing. For the world, Sherlock Holmes had been dead for almost half a year after committing suicide by jumping from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (five months, two days, about eight hours, seems like a lifetime). There were times when Sherlock barely remembered his name, his previous life, his home. He could not afford the distraction, could not allow himself to be weighed down by sentiment: regret, remorse, homesickness, friendship and love.

But then a memory would flare up unbidden, often triggered by minor details like a cup of tea _(always insufficient because not made correctly, without the right ingredients, the right amount of milk, not made by the right person)_ , the sight of a head of short, blond hair _(now shot with more grey, most likely, or not grey, white, there are no grey hairs, only the white ones mingled with pigmented hairs give this appearance)_ , of a cable-knit jumper, a pair of brown leather shoes, the whiff of a particular shampoo or aftershave _(has he changed them or is he still using the same brands?)_. A wave of fierce fear and longing would rush through Sherlock then, reminding him of everything he had sacrificed, for ever, perhaps. Sacrificed to keep it safe, which should make it more bearable, or so he kept telling himself during those moments, because, really, it didn’t. It was bearable, yes, but it was also fucking painful and it was wearing him down with a speed and thoroughness he had never anticipated. “Caring is not an advantage,” his brother had warned him once. What he had neglected to mention was the reason: how much it hurt to care.

Pain or no pain, for now Sherlock had other problems. He was on the run, had turned from hunter to hunted. They did not know who exactly he was, but those in charge of Jim’s organisation knew now there was someone dogging their every step, someone deadly and ruthlessly dangerous and quietly efficient, someone with connections when he needed them, someone who had to be stopped by all means. They had long ceased to underestimate him after two of the bosses had become victim of a media coup which had successfully exposed their machinations and delivered them to the authorities. Now they were cautious lest more of them find themselves ruined, tried and imprisoned, or simply dead. Some had simply fallen off the radar, vanished without trace, presumed deceased. Disposed by someone who knew how to hide traces, how to leave no evidence, how to commit the perfect murder.

There had been killings, two so far. Sherlock didn’t regret them. They had been necessary. There had been no time to arrange for the authorities or his connections to dispose of his targets. One killing had been clean and quick _(poison, subtle, painless, victim didn’t even realise she was dying)_ , the other not so much _(stabbing turned knife brawl, painful for both sides, messy, must improve dexterity)_. They _had_ been necessary, Sherlock kept telling himself. That didn’t mean their deaths didn’t haunt him during those nights he allowed himself to fall asleep. As necessary as they might have been, they rested more heavily on his conscience than he had anticipated. Apparently he was not as cold-blooded and ruthless as he had thought himself to be. And yet he was prepared to kill again to get the job done, nightmares be damned.

Two killers, set upon two of his friends, friends he’d always claimed he didn’t have. One was _(had been, he didn’t live there anymore)_ his landlady, one his, well, there wasn’t really a word to describe what Lestrade was. Employer? Handler? Someone who needed him but who Sherlock had needed all the same, for distraction, mental stimulation, for recognition. Lestrade had suffered through his association with the world’s only consulting detective after Sherlock’s fall from grace, had had to face investigations into his methods, had almost lost his rank, had considered retiring from the Met. He was still there, playing by the rules now, cowed. Bored out of his mind, most likely, with unsolved cases piling up. So yes, Lestrade was a friend, in a way, a friend worth disposing an internationally wanted assassin for in any case.

The two killings stood in no relation to the many instances in which Sherlock’s life had nearly been ended. The hackers had wanted to kill him, but had waited for orders from higher up before getting rid of him, a fact which ultimately had saved his life. He had managed to escape, but had been stranded in Frankfurt unable to return to his lodgings for fear of being tracked there. Injured, completely exhausted after days without sleep and food and with barely sufficient hydration, without any means because he had been stripped of all but his trousers and underwear, he had sought refuge at a homeless shelter in Frankfurt’s Bahnhofsviertel. Here, they had provided him with food, a place to spend the night and some basic medical treatment. Even more importantly, amongst the nameless of the city there had been blessed anonymity and a place to lie low.

In his desperation and much to his chagrin, from a scavenged phone he had contacted his brother. He needed a new passport and some funds in order to move from the city. A new mobile, too. Apparently, Mycroft had already been alarmed by his disappearance from radar for a few days, and had put the wheels into motion. The following day, from a locker at the Hauptbahnhof, Sherlock retrieved a new passport, an iPhone pre-prepared with internet bookmarks, apps, music files and photographs to make it look used and add credibility to his new alter ego as well as some less common features to aid him with his ongoing task, some five hundred Euros and a batch of Danish _kroner_ as well as his travelling details. Thus equipped, he had waited for the coach to Hahn airport.

His new passport was a British issue featuring a quite expertly photoshopped photograph of him. This had forced him to withdraw into the main station’s toilet prior to the coach’s departure to alter his looks. He had cropped his hair close to his head and carefully dyed it to give it a ginger hue. Because of the head injury he had decided against bleaching it first. He had not shaved for a few days, the short stubble softening his gaunt features. According to his new ID, he was James Sigerson, thirty-three years old, born in Exeter _(reminder: slight West Country accent)_. The more detailed description of his alter ego encrypted in a file on his phone offered that Sigerson was a freelance journalist, art-historian and photographer. His current commission was to write an exclusive feature about Queen Margrethe of Denmark’s artistic career with focus on her Tolkien-inspired illustrations for the _Guardian_ or some other major newspaper. As aliases went, Sherlock had to admit that this was one of the more creatively designed one. The Tolkien story was credible because of the upcoming _Hobbit_ movie, creating a high likelihood that major newspapers would want to cash in on the hype. Some thought had gone into bringing Sigerson to life, and as he familiarised himself with his lifestory before getting rid of the file, Sherlock hoped he would be able to keep this name for a while. In the past months he had already gone through so many.

Still, the plan was not for him to spend time in Copenhagen to drink tea with the Danish queen and interview her about her fascination with hobbits, wizards and the vast world of Middle-earth. He was to catch a cruise ship across the Baltic Sea to St. Petersburg where he would pick up the trail of the one assassin who had so far eluded him. The Russian visa he needed he would receive at Copenhagen. At any other time, the prospect of a sea cruise would have set his hair on end because of its implicit boredom, but right now, even if he loathed to admit it, he desperately needed a rest.

The past months had been extremely difficult. There had hardly been a moment of respite, of staying still, of safety. The danger of being discovered had hung like a dark cloud over his head wherever he went. The exhaustion was showing in his lean face and wiry body. He had run himself ragged trying to work faster and more efficiently, to not rest lest he lose precious time. Because, he had told himself over and over again, because it was vital to hurry, to finish the task. If he failed, John would die. If he tarried, he would move on. Sherlock could not afford to let either happen.

Yet it had been too much, even for him who thrived under pressure. He who loved conditions when he was constantly on edge, his mind occupied and working non-stop at high speed, times when boredom simply could not find a way in. Not even he would manage another month like the previous five. He had reached his breaking point. The failure with the hackers and another event a month earlier at Monte Carlo clearly indicated this. He needed to recover, both physically and mentally. Moreover, in order to avoid further failure, he needed to plan his next steps even more meticulously and carefully. There was still so much to do before he could return home.

Home. Was there even one for him now back in London, at Baker Street? John had moved out, unable to continue to live amongst painful reminders of his dead friend. He still mourned Sherlock, Mycroft had told his brother during one of the few and brief instances they had communicated directly after his Fall. Sherlock did not know whether to be pleased or saddened. John’s grief was proof of how much he missed his friend, how much Sherlock had meant to him. The memory of John’s constant, unwavering trust and friendship, his genuine admiration, his wry humour, his smile, his tea, his scent, the sound of his voice, his inappropriate giggles at crime scenes, his mind-numbingly slow typing on his laptop, his sassy retorts aimed at Mycroft whenever Sherlock’s brother dared to invade 221B, the funny way he operated chop sticks, his laugh, his unique, wonderful, John-ness filled Sherlock with warmth and continued to sustain him through some of the more difficult periods of his exile. John was the reason he was doing all this, despite the bitter truth that John had never asked for any of it, would loathe to know how far Sherlock had had to go on occasion to finish a task, to acquire information.

Sentiment. Sherlock wasn’t as immune to it as he always pretended. If he were, the thought of causing John pain with his deceit wouldn’t bother him. But it did, weighing on his conscience and indeed his heart like a ton of bricks. It made him fear the future. Should he manage to eradicate Moriarty’s heritage for good and return to London, would John forgive him? Take him back? Would their friendship stand a chance against the enormous amount of grief he had caused them both? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty was grinding him down more thoroughly than lack of food, sleep and shelter, more than injuries and all the dark, horrible things he had had to do in order to survive and prevail in his task.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirroring glass doors of the departures hall, he was struck how unlike himself he looked with his short hair (although even now his curls were struggling to make an appearance) tinged with auburn highlights. His gaunt features looked scruffy because of the four days’ growth and several scrapes and bruises on lips and cheekbones. His clothes provided by Mycroft’s minions were casual yet sophisticated: jeans, a dark turtleneck jumper, a jacket of grey herringbone tweed and a dark-blue woollen pea coat, the collar of which he had turned up _(against the windy, wet November weather, Atlantic low moving in, storm clouds racing across the sky; no other reason)_. Leather brogues not unlike the ones he usually wore but of a different colour and adorned with Budapest pattern, and a red and white Freitag messenger bag containing a laptop, a change of shirt and underwear, pyjamas and toiletries as well as two novels _(Cloud Atlas_ , _A Casual Vacancy)_ , a biography of Magrethe, a Daler-Rowney note/sketchbook and a pencil case completed the outfit. Whoever had chosen the bag seemed to have a curious sense of humour as its pattern roughly resembled that of the Dannebrog, the Danish flag.

The departures hall was a riot of noise and people. A large group of travellers with skiing gear were struggling to reach the oversize baggage drop off, a venture in which they were obstructed by a number of families queuing in front of one of the Ryanair counters, having obviously neglected to check in online and register their mountain of luggage. Since Sherlock had not been booked on either of the many airlines operating to and from Hahn, he took a moment to get his bearings. Nobody had told him where to check in. Given the efficiency of Mycroft’s underlings, he hoped all formalities had been sorted. Deciding to try the general information counter, and turning to head over there, his eyes fell on an elderly woman in a stewardess outfit, albeit of none of the companies he was familiar with. She was holding up a sign announcing ‘Mr. Sigerson’.

In his hurry to get out of Frankfurt, and lacking a stable internet connection during the coach journey through the Hunsrück hills, he had not been able to research the company booked to transfer him to Denmark. Still, there was a lot of information gained from the lady awaiting him: mid-sixties, divorced for some time _(twice)_ , owns a small dog _(cockapoo?)_ , uniform is not recent but well looked after, has been changed to fit several times, not fancy but practical and even comfortable; woman displays quiet authority, most likely not only head stewardess but someone higher up in the hierarchy of the company _(owner?)_ ; struggling company, judging from her hands and the way her fingernails are kept short – she has to do a lot of work herself like tidying and cleaning, seems to like Camembert, name of the airline is MJN according to pin, interesting acronym, made up, must have personal relevance. Intriguing arrangement.

Sherlock approached casually, shifting his bag on his shoulder yet again and clenching his jaw at the discomfort of the strap biting into a cut despite three layers of clothing. She had noticed him, and the sign wavered slightly as she stared at him wide-eyed. With mild alarm he took in her reaction when she realised that he must be Mr. Sigerson. She almost did a double take as her gaze flew up and down his person to come to rest on his face. Her eyes narrowed while scrutinising his features. She seemed positively irritated by his looks.

“Mr. Sigerson?” she enquired with the tiniest trace of hesitation that didn’t seem to fit her otherwise brusque, self-confident demeanour.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, cautiously.

She introduced herself as Mrs. Knapp-Shappey, CEO of MJN Air. A few pleasantries were exchanged which made Sherlock wonder what exactly Mycroft or his assistants had told her about her passenger and his status, because he was addressed with a degree of awe and respect he had rarely encountered elsewhere. It seemed fairly genuine, too, no mere grovelling to impress a prestigious client.

On their way to security, Sherlock noticed her staring at his face yet again.

“I had an accident in the bathroom a few days ago,” he explained, pleased to hear that she took in his attempt at a West Country accent without the slightest display of doubt. He indicated the cut above his left eyebrow that had been closed with butterfly tapes. “Hit my head on the sink after slipping on the tiles.”

An instance of irritation on her features, then she gave him a smile which reminded him of Mrs. Hudson with an unwelcome stab of homesickness. At least she didn’t call him ‘silly boy’.

“Dangerous places, bathrooms,” she said instead. She obviously wasn't buying his story.

“Do I have something on my face?” he therefore asked, causing her to blush faintly.

“Not at all, Mr. Sigerson, and please excuse my staring. It’s just that you look ... well ... familiar.”

Alarm bells rang all over Sherlock’s brain, honed after months on the hunt to utmost alert. He tensed and almost stopped before forcing himself to move on and keep a straight face. Nevertheless some of his shock must have shown in his features because his companion frowned slightly. Sherlock considered excusing himself to abscond into the bathroom and disappear, flight and arrangements and alter egos be damned.

“You don’t happen to have a brother or half-brother, do you?” Mrs. Knapp-Shappey asked, studying his features now unabashedly.

“I do, but he looks nothing like me,” replied Sherlock cautiously.

“Ah, well, interesting.” With that, she fell silent, leaving Sherlock to wonder whether he had a mysterious Doppelgänger somewhere.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Security managed to find neither the porcelain stiletto attached to his calf nor the lock-pick hidden in his pencil-case, but then he had not expected them to. Idiots, the lot of them. He was not sure about his companion, though. She seemed to have the kind of shrewd intelligence and no-nonsense attitude he appreciated in people. What if she had seen through his disguise? He didn’t suspect her to be any part of Moriarty’s network, not at all. But what if she had watched the news and read the papers in June and still recalled the scandalous end of famous yet fraud consulting detective Sherlock Holmes? MJN was a British airline after all. And although he wanted to be convinced no harm would come from being recognised by this woman, he could not risk it. There wasn’t just his life at stake, but those of others, too. John’s life.

“Mum, hey, mum,” an excited voice caused Mrs. Knapp-Shappey to stop short at his side, roll her eyes and draw a deep, steadying breath. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to study her surprisedly. He followed her gaze to the owner of the voice: young man, around thirty, no real uniform but MJN pin on waistcoat and same tie as CEO so also part of the airline, apparently main function is making coffee, heating up meals and cleaning the aircraft but not employed in any other official capacity, son of owner, not bright even by normal people’s standards, likes cheesecakes _(raspberry?)_ , dogs and Toblerones.

“Mum, look, they had all three kinds, even the white ones,” he called, vigorously waving a plastic bag containing several longish, triangular shapes. “They’re the best. Douglas said I should bring him some apple juice, but they only had the sparkly kind mixed with water so I didn’t because when I did once he said it wasn’t the right one.”

He turned to Sherlock and beamed at him. “Oh, hey Skip, did you want anything as well? You didn’t say. Did you already do the walk around? GERTI’s all fixed again now, isn’t she? Only the weather report said it’s going to be real windy and I was rather worried when we landed here and there were all those warning signs on. Although I must say it looked brilliant, like when we celebrated Christmas twice on one day and you had all the lights on.”

He cocked his head when he had drawn close. “Where’s your uniform, Skip? Whoa, and what happened to your head? Gosh, that looks nasty. Did you hit yourself on the wing again? It’s awfully low, isn’t it, and always exactly where you don’t expect it to be. Are you sure you can fly out today? Only Douglas flew in and —”

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey raised both hands in a stalling gesture. “Arthur, Arthur, calm down. Everything is fine with our pilot. At least I hope so. He was undamaged and in uniform last time I saw him, Actually, I doubt I’ve ever seen him without it. So, no need to raise the alarm. This is our passenger, Mr. Sigerson.”

Turning to Sherlock, she gave him an apologetic glance. “Mr. Sigerson, please excuse the commotion. This is my son, Arthur, who acts as steward on the aeroplane."

Sherlock nodded at Arthur by way of a greeting, which the young man barely seemed to take in, so intently was he gazing at Sherlock’s face.

“Wow,” he managed at last, breathlessly.

“Arthur, do shut your mouth and stop staring,” his mother reprimanded, obviously choosing to forget that she had done exactly the same not long ago. “Come along.”

Arthur obediently fell in step, all the while staring at Sherlock and absently swinging his bag. Sherlock forced himself to not to roll his eyes. Hopefully they would lock the man away during the flight because the prospect of having to endure his non-stop talk was truly horrifying. He began to think that his brother had arranged all this to annoy him, choosing the most unprofessional charter airline possible. The remarks about the aeroplane’s behaviour during landing didn’t sound encouraging, neither did those about the pilot.

 

**- <o>-**

 

During the rest of the walk and ensuing bus transfer across the airfield, Arthur seemed torn between the urge to stare and talk, and to heed his mother’s orders. The result was a rather comic mixture of what he considered were covert glances whenever he thought Sherlock wouldn’t notice, and forced stares out of the window or thorough rereads of the content section on one of his Toblerones to feign disinterest.

For himself, Sherlock felt likewise torn, his alarm partly de- and his own curiosity increased against his will. Whatever this airline was, by no means it operated by normal standards. Entirely unprofessional, but they seemed trustworthy enough, displaying a brand of weirdness that was endearing rather than threatening. In fact, it recalled giggling at a crime scene or enjoying some good Chinese takeaway after a really juicy murder. The memory and the vivid images it conjured up sent a stab of pain through him. He could not afford sentimentality, not now and not in the near future. Those moments lay in the past, and there was a high possibility they would not reoccur ever again. There was no use dwelling on bygone moments. Only pain and regret and acute longing lay that way. Pining, even. How utterly, sickeningly sentimental. He wished he could delete those memories, but so far they had refuted all attempts, having been permanently burned into his mental hard drive. With an effort, he fought them down, staring out of the grimy window of the transfer vehicle.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The reason for both Arthur’s and his mother’s unveiled curiosity became obvious to Sherlock once they had reached the aircraft. The small jet was parked in a remote landing bay far out on the airfield and had definitely seen better times _(Lockheed-McDonnell, didn’t know those were still operating at all)_. Like its owner’s uniform, however, it looked reasonably well kept and maintained _(an attempt at saving what there was to save)_ , most likely because it was the only one the airline possessed. It seemed no less airworthy than several of the other planes on the airfield, causing Sherlock’s worries to decrease further. That was, until he clapped eyes on what pretended to be the pilot.

There was a young man in a captain’s uniform, the cap of which appeared to be adorned with some extra stripes of gold braid in a futile attempt at giving him some much needed extra authority. He was busy doing the walk around, ticking things on a clipboard with extreme meticulousness, critically checking and re-checking what he had just controlled as if undecided whether to trust his own eyes and writing. 

Sherlock caught himself staring and quickly averted his eyes. The man bore a striking resemblance to himself. Smaller by several inches, of somewhat stockier build yet still slight _(muscular but not from exercising, unusual as his job as a pilot is sedentary, must work something else involving heavy lifting and carrying, scuff marks on shoes and trousers from where something heavy rested before it was lifted up again. Boxes? Furniture? Removal firm. Seems to be working in between flights because he didn’t change his clothes or only parts of them, hard pressed for money, apparently, doesn’t receive enough salary to sustain himself solely with it, may reflect his skill as a pilot)_. His skin was pale and freckled, his eyes of a light grey similar to Sherlock’s. The hair visible underneath his captain’s hat was ginger, a little lighter in shade than Sherlock’s dyed locks, but seemed to have the same unruly life of its own, particularly in this humid November weather. His face had almost the same shape, long and lean, the cheekbones less prominent, a similar pert nose and full lips, with a small chin and long neck. The resemblance was uncanny indeed. The man looked more similar to Sherlock than his own brother.

“How are things going, Martin,” asked Mrs. Knapp-Shappey. “Are we ready for take off?”

The man called Martin gave a surprised squack as he dove up from under the wing, only to hit his head and swipe his hat off in the process.

“Almost done, Carolyn,” he replied, retrieving his hat and carefully rearranging it with his face flushing almost the same colour as his hair. He turned to her. If Sherlock had thought Arthur and his mother had looked comical at seeing him, this fellow surpassed them. For a moment he looked about to faint, staring at Sherlock, the blush vanishing from the face as if someone had opened a drain, causing the freckles to stand out in stark contrast on his shocked face.

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” exclaimed Arthur from behind Sherlock, gazing from one man to the other, his voice full of awe. “I actually thought he was you, Skip.”

Martin had finally managed to close his mouth but seemed unable to either speak or move. Breathing, too, seemed difficult, but that was boring anyway. As comical as the confusion on the young man’s features looked, Sherlock surmised it was more or less the default state for this man. Whatever he was, an aeroplane captain didn’t seem to be the right description.

“Ah, Arthur, did you get my apple juice?” a confident voice boomed from overhead, and on the stairs a middle-aged man with grey curtains and first officer’s insignia on his uniform appeared. He took in the scene on the ground with a majestic gaze, like a monarch surveying his minions.

“Sorry, Douglas,” Arthur called up, “they only had the bubbly stuff you said you didn’t like. With water, you know. ‘Apfelschorle’, they call it here. But they had all three kinds of toblerones. Even the white ones.” He waved his plastic bag, beaming happily.

“Ah well, bad luck,” said Douglas. “All clear, Martin? Martin?”

“I think it’s better if you fly out,” said Carolyn. “Martin seems a little indisposed.”

“I’m fine,” managed Martin weakly.

Douglas’ eyes switched from him to Sherlock and back.

“Good God, didn’t know there were two of you.”

“This is our passenger, Mr. Sigerson,” Carolyn explained. Turning to Sherlock, she added, “I sincerely apologise, sir.” Sherlock gave a curt nod. How many more apologies was he going to receive today? He should have started a list.

All this unwelcome attention was beginning to bother him. Moreover, he didn’t like the way the first officer was scrutinising him. Like with Carolyn, Sherlock was convinced that here was someone who might have recalled a thing or two from last June. Douglas was clever, exuded confidence and a certain swagger which should have put him in the captain’s seat instead of the unhappy creature officially in charge of the plane. The fact he wasn’t, and indeed that he was employed at MJN Air in a minor position told Sherlock all he needed to know without even considering any other cues. Douglas had all the makings of a petty criminal along the lines of Angelo, always seeking (and finding) his own advantage and ruthlessly exploiting it while navigating the grey and misty borderlands of legality. Sherlock wondered what indeed he had needed the apple juice for. It did make a good substitute for whisky, didn’t it?  

Under different circumstances, he would not have cared less about someone like Douglas and his semi-criminal doings. In fact, his obvious resourcefulness and connections might have been something he would have wanted to utilise. But now, brains and a quick wit were a liability. Sherlock had hoped to slip into the aircraft and take off, but all this chatter, the stares, the conversations were severely grating on his nerves, and the knowing glances were making him uneasy. He didn’t like being around people at the best of times, choosing who to socialise with carefully. Small talk he tried to avoid as much as possible because it riled him, and should the entire flight pass in this chatty way, he was sure that at one point his patience was going to snap and his temper, barely contained during the past days of utter hardship and misery flare to a dangerous fire. Moreover, every minute wasted on the ground seemed like an hour of precious time to him. He needed to get away from this place, from this country, had to leave the constant reminder of his latest bitter failure behind him. A quiet, efficient and most of all professional charter airline would have been what he required. Not ... this. The ‘captain’ didn’t seem like he would even find the cockpit if it was pointed out to him in flashing letters, much less get the aeroplane off the ground. The steward ... well, better not think about him because that way madness lay. The first officer did bear all the indications of a proper airline captain, but the very fact that he was not the senior officer on this aircraft raised certain suspicions about his past. Most likely he had been forced to leave employment with a larger airline because of some misconduct and was now stranded with MJN with the rest of these desperate souls. Well, in this respect perhaps this was the right company after all, thought Sherlock wryly. Wasn’t he as run down and desperate as any of them at the moment?

“Please do follow me inside, Mr. Sigerson,” he heard Carolyn’s voice at his side, “and make yourself comfortable. We should be off the ground in no time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual with my fics, there's be fanart at my tumblr, tagged [#over cloud and under cloud](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/over+cloud+and+under+cloud). The drawings are also part of my larger series of artworks entitled ["Sherlock after the Fall"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/after-the-fall).
> 
> The drawing for Chapter 1 is called "Comparing".


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: reference to plane crash

‘No time’ meant a wait of almost another hour until take off, during which Sherlock’s patience was stretched almost unbearably. If it consisted of molecules, its thinness would have reached atom level. Arguably, the delay was not MJN Air’s fault, at least when it came to the allocation of starting positions. There seemed to be some major discussion in the cockpit, though, snatches of which drifted to Sherlock. He was seated in one of the first rows, staring out of the window at the darkening airfield. Position lamps were being reflected in the growing puddles on the ground and clouds were chasing across the sky, mirroring his glum mood in their heavy greyness. He could not make out what the row was about. It rather sounded like one the two pilots might have had several times in the past. Given what he had deduced about their backgrounds, Sherlock surmised it was a matter of authority and the pecking order of the cockpit. Dull. Tedious. Speaking of which ...

He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes when Arthur’s cheery voice sounded in the cabin. He felt a shadow fall on him and continued to stare resolutely out of the window. Company was the last thing he wanted right now. How difficult was it to just get the bloody aircraft off the ground and out of German air space?

“Hello Mr. Sigerson, sir, might I have your attention for a moment for our safety demonstration.” _Go away,_ Sherlock thought, hoping if he didn’t reply Arthur would stop and leave on his own.

“Mr. Sigerson,” an orange life vest was waved under his nose, “this is really important, you know, and much more interesting than the airfield on a rainy day. I would put on the video but the DVD player has been acting up lately and the sound’s always a second or so behind the images. So you’ll have he pleasure of a live demonstration, and you really wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? It’s almost like a charade, you see, only I’ll be doing the talking, too. So you really should look for a moment. Oh, and you really, _really_ need to fasten your seatbelt. I’ll show you how in the demonstration in case you don’t know how.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t he just leave? Sherlock knew he radiated disinterest, even hostility, like a beacon, but this ... idiot didn’t seem to notice. God, how could people be this thick and exist?

“Mr. Sigerson, you really, really, _really_ need to look now,” Arthur pleaded into his ear. This was it. The last link between the atoms failed, like a sudden loss of electronegativity if that were possible, and Sherlock’s fragile patience snapped. 

“No, I don’t,” he growled, the ‘t’ a sharp, almost painful clicking sound. He turned his head to fix Arthur with a deadly glare.

“I don’t need to see your pathetic safety demonstration because it has nothing to do with safety, it’s just an insurance thing. Or are you really convinced that any of us would survive a crash of this aircraft if it dropped from an altitude of twenty thousand feet as long as we’re securely belted into the seats with the tray folded up and the headrest in an upright position? Or that life vests would be of any vital help if we crashed in the midst of Germany, on dry land? Or that an oxygen mask suspended from the ceiling would make breathing easier when the plane is on the ground, kerosene-fed fire devouring it merrily? Come on, not even you can be so idiotic to not understand that all those ‘security measures’ are just a hoax to make passengers _feel_ safe. Because if we crash, we die. It’s as easy as that. Even you should understand it. Have you ever seen the remains of the victims of a plane crash? Most bodies are torn apart and burned beyond recognition. You have to rely on dental information to identify them, and even then it’s difficult because sometimes you just don’t find enough teeth to do so. So please, spare me your inane and disgustingly cheerful prattle. Do me and the world a favour, remove yourself and the life vest and don’t come back.”

Arthur drew a breath to squeeze in a word edgewise but Sherlock was quicker. “Oh, maybe I should add, just to keep you away permanently, that no, I don’t want any drink. Nor do I need to be asked what I want for dinner. You should be delighted about this fact because you won’t have to worry about microwave settings in your no doubt failure-prone attempt at heating up a meal in the appliance. I don’t want to eat, and certainly not any airline fare, because I’m not hungry, and if I were I definitely wouldn’t want something pretending to be a meal but having the taste and consistency of lukewarm cardboard. If you tell me not to use my phone you can save that breath right away, too. I know it doesn’t interfere with this aircraft’s instruments, meaning I will use it whenever I need to, and my laptop, too. So, did you understand that, or do I have to explain it again and more slowly? Perhaps a summary, brief and to the point so you can actually keep up: Leave. Me. Alone.”

Arthur swallowed, his face pale. His hands still grabbing the seatbelt and the life vest were dangling loosely and dejectedly at his sides. “No, it’s … I did understand that,” he said quietly. “I’m not _that_ stupid. I do understand things without people using punctuation between single words. I … I’ll be off, then.”

With that he slunk off towards the galley, but stopped half way and turned to Sherlock. “That wasn’t very nice what you just said, you know.” He retraced his steps a few paces until he stood right next to Sherlock’s seat. Sherlock felt the acute need to throw something to vent his frustration. How much clearer did he have to put things with this idiot?

“In fact,” Arthur went on, apparently having gained some courage instead of squirming under Sherlock’s icy glare, “in fact it was pretty nasty. Not even Mr. Birling says things like that to me, and he keeps telling me I’m a no good idiot every time he flies with us. But he gives good tips at least. Only once he didn’t because he was drunk and forgot. He’s nasty but nice. You’re just nasty. No wonder someone beat you up like this, and that you’re travelling all alone, without any friends. I doubt you have any at all, because who’d want to be friends with you? Good day, sir.”

With that he tossed up his head and marched off.

Sherlock slumped back in his seat and gave the seatbelt a vicious tuck to fasten it properly. A jolt went through the plane as the brakes were loosened. Finally, finally they were moving, rolling along the designated route over the airfield. Sherlock let out a breath of relief as he watched the red and orange position lamps to the side of the road being momentarily transformed into thinly rayed stars by some water droplets outside the aircraft’s windows. A turn, another one, a brief halt, and they had reached the runway. Briefly, Sherlock wondered about the lack of a captain’s address, but he assumed the pilots had overheard his dressing down of the hapless steward and were wisely desisting from annoying him further.

There was another jolt as the Lockheed-McDonnell’s engines fully engaged and the plane started to accelerate along the runway. Sherlock was pressed into his seat, feeling every single seam on the tarmac as the machine thundered over it. Then suddenly the pressure in his ears and the perceived weight of his body increased for a moment when the wheels left the ground and the plane took off. Sherlock let his head fall back against the headrest. Finally under way. Things were moving again. He was off to hunt once more, to finish this dreadful game he had long ago lost all enjoyment of playing at. And to return, hopefully, when the game was over.

A ray of the setting sun found its way through the harrying clouds, just as the plane sped through them swiftly gaining altitude. Through gaps in the clouds the ground was visible, illuminated by the spot of sunlight which cast the undulating hills of the Hunsrück in a warm glow. The patches of brown woodland, the hedges between fields and meadows, and the small villages hidden in the folds of the land suddenly looked incredibly plastic, every tree and house and pylon casting long blue shadows over the autumnal landscape. Already mist was gathering in the valleys, creeping up from riverbanks and swathing low-lying meadows like a shroud.

Then the aircraft was swallowed by grey cloud and the light was extinguished as if someone had switched it off, to reappear only a moment later when they rose from the layer of fluffy grey. Now they were above the clouds, the peaks of which were tipped with gold like waves in a slowly moving sea. Now and again the land below became visible, but it was obscured by a thin haze now that made it look dreamlike and surreal. Sherlock’s window was facing eastward when the plane swerved and began to head north, and here the sky was already a deep blue, the first stars twinkling. _'A deep blue like clear evening sky seen from a lamp-lit room_ _’_ , now where had he read this quote?

_“_ _I thought you didn't care about things like that._ _”_

_“_ _Doesn't mean I can'_ _t appreciate it._ _”_

Snatches of a conversation long ago under a starry London sky flashed across his mind, accompanied by a deep stab of sorrow. John’s voice, so clear. They’d been hunting the Golem then in the dark labyrinth of Vauxhall Arches, yet another of the many places in London’s underbelly no tourist ever got to see but where Sherlock knew the city to be at its liveliest, the stages of its long history laid bare in layers upon layers of decaying architecture. Oh, he loved the place. If he was capable of this emotion at all, surely it was bestowed upon London, fervently. The old and the new in perfect harmony, more than two thousand years of history obvious to the eyes of those who knew how to observe. It wasn’t just a city, it was a living thing, an organism. It was his home, the only place he’d ever called that, and oh, did he miss it.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard when a wave of emotion hit him. Images swirled before his eyes. All those places he used to frequent, the ugly and the fair, the serene, peaceful, and the dangerous, exciting ones. Right now London would be utterly beautiful, he knew. Late afternoon in November, wind in the west, storm clouds racing over the sky on their journey from the Irish Sea to the Continent. The city would present itself in the limited colour scheme of winter: browns, blues, whites, black, gold and a thousand shades of grey, with only the red buses adding contrast like drops of blood on marble flagstones. The Thames would be grey like mercury, bringing the smell of the sea during high tide. The sun, low and level, would pierce the clouds occasionally, illuminating the white dome of St. Paul’s and the glass-fronted buildings of the City’s banking district like a spotlight.

Sherlock let out a shuddery breath. Previously, he hadn’t let himself be reminded of London. He had deliberately avoided any coverage of the Olympics lest he be compromised by homesickness. Last Friday when he had walked along Frankfurt’s Schillerstraße during market day, he had resolutely averted his eyes from the van selling all kind of British foodstuffs like Walkers crisps, lemon curd and PG Tips, and mince pies for the approaching holiday season. It had worked, or so he kept telling himself. He _had_ peeked at the goods, one glance and no more. He had been busy then, his mind, thankfully, occupied with other matters. But now apparently his defences were down, and five months of pent up longing were surging through him. If only he could make the plane take a turn to the left and head westward. He could be in London in an hour. 

But what then? Where would he go? He could not reveal himself to John or any of the others because it wouldn’t be safe. And even if it were, most likely his return would not be well received. Arthur’s hurt words flashed through his mind: _“_ _Who_ _’_ _d want to be friends with you?_ _”_

Yes, who would? As if a flood-gate had been opened, other images and snatches of conversation zipped through his brain. A fireplace, an armchair, a shaking glass of golden liquid in his hand, the smell of peaty alcohol, the smoky, almost medicinal aftertaste of Laphroaig on his tongue, the toughest single malt they’d had at the Cross Keys. _“_ _And why would you listen to me, I_ _’_ _m just your friend._ _”_ _“_ _I don_ _’_ _t have_ _‘_ _friends_ _’_ _._ _”_ _“_ _Wonder why._ _”_ The lab at Bart’s, harsh neon light, John’s eyes flashing in anger. He’d called him a machine then. _“_ _Alone is what I have, alone protects me._ _”_ _“_ _Nope. Friends protect people._ _”_

_Oh, John, if only you knew. If only I could tell you_. _All this, all of it, I_ _’_ _ve done to protect my friends, you foremost._ Sherlock swallowed again as he stared out at the darkening clouds, now rosy-hued because the sun had sunk below them. His throat was dry and so were his eyes. They were stinging painfully. It would have been easy to blame the plane’s air-condition, but he knew the true reason. _Pull yourself together, damn it_ , he reprimanded himself sternly. _Crying will not change anything. Get a bloody grip, man, and get the job done._

 

**- <o>-**

 

The firm clearing of a throat pulled him out of his painful reverie, causing him to jump slightly in his seat and hurriedly try to compose himself.

“Congratulations, sir,” Carolyn’s voice sounded sharp, menacing. When Sherlock shifted his eyes from the window to her resolute figure placed right in front of his seat, her hands on her hips and her expression stern and full of suppressed anger, for a moment he was taken aback. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t give me that arrogant public school boy look,” she groused. “And don’t you dare tell me to, how did you put it, ‘remove myself’. Because I won’t. This is my plane, and therefore it’s my responsibility to tell off a client if I believe he’s been a proper pain in the arse. Oh, don’t be shocked. And don’t you dare be affronted or even angry. After what you’ve just pulled, you better keep your face neutral and don’t give me any funny looks at all.

“I know your kind. Clever, witty, charming when it suits you, but cold and ruthless underneath. Someone who’d sell out his ‘friends’ when it aids his purposes. Above that, an arrogant git, setting himself up above anybody whose intelligence doesn’t reach his own lofty heights. Oh yes, I know your kind. One smartarse like yourself is even in my employ and right now in charge of this plane, and no, I’m definitely not talking about Martin. You have no idea what I’ve put up with since I’ve started running this company. We get all kinds here. Posh arrogant bastards with too much money for their own good, brainless morons off to stag nights or sports events where they can extinguish what few brain-cells they have left with the right amount of alcohol, desperate buggers who need to get from A to B quickly but for some shady reason can’t use a proper airline.” She flashed a meaningful glance at Sherlock from narrowed eyes. 

“We’ve had film stars, rugby teams, killer cats, orchestras, polar bear enthusiasts. We had a man die on this plane. We have Mr. Birling once a year. We even had my sister. So we’re pretty much set up for anything and anybody. And we manage. Not one of those passengers – and believe me, you haven’t met Mr. Birling or my sister, both of whom give the term ‘nasty’ an entire new meaning – not one of them has managed to rid Arthur of his cheer. Not even my ex-husband, the boy’s vicious father, succeeded at that, and by God he tried. No, Mr. Sigerson, that honour solely belongs to you. So congratulations for this achievement. I hope you’re content now. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t care. What’s Arthur to you? Just another idiot, isn’t he? Lad of thirty still living with his mother and playing steward at a tiny charter airline, messing up even the easiest tasks. Nobody you’d surround yourself with willingly, I bet. Then again, you don’t strike me as the type of person who suffers any company gladly.

“Now Arthur, he gets along with anybody. Yes, he is an idiot. I know it, and he knows it, too. But you know what, he doesn’t mind, because he is happy. Arthur is one of those genuinely happy creatures whose sprightly cheer couldn’t be subdued by dropping a ton of bricks on it. So I thought, at least, because lo and behold, Mr. Sigerson managed with a few scathing words. Marvellous, sir. Bet you have a lot of friends to share this extraordinary talent with. Then again, could it be possible that my son was right and you don’t have any? I told you, we get all sorts here, and even though Arthur may not be the brightest candle on the cake, don’t believe for a moment he doesn’t observe things.”

She snorted derisively, nodding toward Sherlock’s damaged face. “Bathroom accident my arse. I recognise the marks of a brawl when I see them, and so did Arthur. You’re not who you pretend to be, are you, Mr. Sigerson? Now, I don’t want to know who you are. Someone with your damned arrogance and someone who hurt and insulted my boy so bitterly when he was only trying to do his job I don’t want to get to know any further. But I perceive you got yourself into some trouble, understandably so given your attitude – I bet there is a queue of people wanting to beat you up whenever you open your mouth —”

 _“_ _I always hear_ _‘_ _Punch me in the face'_ _when you_ _’_ _re speaking, but it_ _’_ _s usually sub-text._ _”_

“and you needed someone to get you out. We only agreed to take you on because I owed someone a favour. Yes, okay, so we also needed the money, but that’s how you run a business. And you know what, now I regret it. I wish I could just give you a parachute and chuck you out. Or even throw you out without one. Since I can’t, let me tell you this: in your own interest – and I cannot stress this enough because if you don’t comply with my expressed wishes you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can possibly imagine and whatever happened to you to give you these daring facial decorations will seem like a picnic in the park in comparison. In your own interest you will behave now. In a moment I will send Arthur over with a cup of tea. You will take this cup and drink it. You will be kind and thank the steward. And then you will apologise. I don’t care whether you mean it or not. I’m sure you’re good at pretending. You seem a good enough actor. What I do care about is that Arthur believes it. I won’t have him remain sad and downcast for the rest of the flight. Arthur’s default mode is cheerful, and it’s your task to restore it after so skilfully switching it off.”

Carolyn leaned in closer, her eyes boring into Sherlock’s. “Do we understand each other, Mr. Sigerson?”

Feeling compelled to do so against his will, “Yes, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey,” he replied, his voice rough. He did regret his harsh words to Arthur, borne as they were out of the anger and frustration he felt at himself about his own failures. Nevertheless, he did not normally suffer to be addressed this way. Normally, he would have given her a devastating return for her brazenness, would have deduced her mercilessly to reassert his authority. But he felt he had no strength left to do so, and moreover no justification. She was right. He was an arrogant twat most of the time, he insulted people by placing a mirror in front of their faces and telling the world what he read there. The few friends he had called his own he had alienated. They thought him dead. Maybe they mourned him still, but truth be told, they were coping without him. And weren’t they better off that way, without his presence in their lives? Yes, he was cold, cruel, ruthless. He had killed people, and could expect to have to do more killing. And he was good at it.

He swallowed around the lump suddenly blocking his throat. “I ...,” he began, and had to clear his throat before he could continue, loathing the emotion she had managed to stir up in him. “I would appreciate some tea,” he managed.

She drew back, straightening her waistcoat with a brusque gesture. “Good. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk.”

“Coming up,” she said cheerfully and strode away.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, running a trembling hand through his hair. Good God, what was the matter with him? She hadn’t told him anything new, had she? True, he was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of what actually had been quite a good deduction amongst all the raging. It would have been easy to blame his distress on his exhausted state. But it wasn’t just that. It was the dark realisation that if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up spending the rest of his life alone. A while ago, prior to the fateful encounter at the lab at Bart’s, he wouldn’t have been daunted by the prospect. But now, now that he knew how precious friend- and companionship could be, the thought of never regaining it scared him. 

God, he really needed that break, or he’d be arriving at St. Petersburg an emotional wreck, unable to distance himself, unable to work as efficiently as he could. Striving to regain his composure, he sat up straighter, adjusting the seatbelt to get comfortable.

Tentative steps approached, accompanied by the smell of Earl Grey. To show his good will, Sherlock folded down the table, and a moment later a steaming cup was placed on it, resplendent on a saucer and accompanied by a spoon and two small portions of milk.

“Cup,” said Arthur, helpfully, indicating the beverage and standing back with a faintly expectant but otherwise unreadable expression, the achievement of which surely was a feat for him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Cup?”

Arthur shrugged. “Actually, I should say: ‘Here is your nice cup of hot tea, sir’, but a while ago Martin informed me that the tea I brought him was neither nice nor hot, nor was he sure it actually was tea. Oh wait, I think that was supposed to be coffee anyway only it wasn’t. Anyway. So ... I’ll just say ‘cup’, to prevent any disappointments.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, reaching for the milks, emptying them into the cup and stirring them in, before carefully taking a sip. “That is a ... prudent way of going about it,” he offered, giving the steward what he hoped was a fairly genuine looking smile. “And the tea is fine. It tastes like proper tea, it’s hot, and even, well, nice.”

Arthur beamed proudly. “See, I can operate the microwave,” he said. Cocking his head, he looked at Sherlock thoughtfully – or what passed for ‘thoughtful’ for Arthur Shappey. “Prudent, is that the same as ‘clever’?”

“Quite, yes,” said Sherlock.

“Wow,” Arthur breathed. “You think I was clever saying that? Nobody’s ever said that to me. Normally I’m a clot.”

Setting down his cup after another sip, Sherlock turned more fully towards him. The image of a grey church and leaning, lichen-covered headstones sticking out of bright green turf flashed through his mind. Seated on a tomb a small figure in the ugliest green jacket in existence (which he should have used for and humanely destroyed in an experiment ages ago). _“_ _Funny doesn_ _’_ _t suit you. You should stick to ice._ _”_ An apology had been required there, too, and like now he had felt out of his depth. It wasn’t something he usually did. Should he ever manage to return and be allowed to face John again, a great deal of apologising would have to be done, hoping against hope to be forgiven.

“You’re not a clot, Arthur, and I am very sorry for calling you an idiot and all the other unfavourable things. It wasn’t my place to do so. I hope you will forgive me.”

Arthur shrugged again and smiled at him. “Yeah, sure. That’s what mum said, by the way, when I told her. ‘The only person allowed to tell you you’re an idiot right to your face is I, not some arrogant git.’ Her words, not mine.”

“Oh, she called me worse,” stated Sherlock, and Arthur nodded wisely.

“Yeah, I know. She’s pretty inventive that way. You should hear what she calls dad when they have to talk to each other, or Martin when he messed up another take off.”

“So ... you accept my apology?” asked Sherlock with uncharacteristic tentativeness.

“Yeah, sure. Mum scared you into apologising, didn’t she? Did she threaten to throw you out of the aeroplane? That usually works on people because she sounds pretty convincing when she says it.”

Denial on his tongue, Sherlock decided to stick to the truth, tired as he was of pretending. “Not so much scared me as put a mirror right in front of my face and made me look. I ... I didn’t like what I saw there, and even more I disliked hearing what she saw and what she wasn’t afraid of pointing out to me in great detail. She’s quite a formidable woman, your mother.” Silently, he wondered if she was in any way related to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh yes, she’s brilliant, isn’t she? Oh, I forgot to ask. Do you want any biscuits with the tea? I’m afraid we don’t have any custard creams anymore because the Skipper used them to make Christmas pudding for me last year, but there’s some shortbread left, I think. Want me to have a look? Douglas got loads of it when he gave this bloke from Inverness the degus he’d gotten from the fellow from Santiago in exchange for the sauna hats Ivan had given him for the wine from Italy. Oh, I wanted one of those hats. They were made of felt and really warm, and there was one with goggles sewn on like a real aviator’s cap. But Douglas said he needed all of them when we went to Chile. The degus were fun, too, especially when I opened the box to have a peek and they all ran out and we had to catch them again. You won’t believe the places they crept into. And they started chewing on the cables. And now we have all this shortbread. You want some? Real Scottish shortbread.”

Arthur gave him a hopeful look. Sherlock suppressed a sigh. “Yes, why not.” Being civil was exhausting.

Default mode obviously restored, Arthur’s face split into a wide grin. “Brilliant.”

He dashed off to the galley, only to return a short while later with an apologetic expression. “Um, I’m really sorry, sir, but apparently all the shortbread is in the hold because Douglas needs it for some lady at Copenhagen airport.”

He tipped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. “We might have some Hobnobs, come to think of it, if the degus didn’t eat them. Just a moment, sir.”

Sherlock drew breath to inform the eager steward he didn’t need biscuits that badly, but Arthur had dashed off yet again.

Withdrawing his phone from his jacket’s inner pocket, Sherlock switched it on and scrolled through the collection of photographs his brother’s minions had uploaded. They looked like mere touristy shots of several European and international cities, but he knew that many of them had been selected deliberately, telling him where to go for information, for shelter, for provisions should the need arise and he be forced to fall back on his brother’s resources. He hoped to avoid it in the future, nevertheless he looked closely at the images to find out the precise locations they depicted. Knowing his brother and his customary level of secrecy, in many cases not the buildings photographed were the location, but the vantage point the picture had been taken from, forcing him not only to guess at the city, but also take into account the angle, perspective and possible distortions caused by the respective lenses. He smiled slightly to himself. A challenge to keep his mind occupied during inevitable periods of boredom. From time to time, Mycroft was good for something after all, it seemed..

One shot caught his attention for another reason. He doubted it had anything to do with possible safe houses or potential haunts of Moriarty’s underlings he had yet to visit. It showed a street in a wealthy-looking neighbourhood. Historic houses, well-kept greenswards, potted flowers on windowsills. People walking dogs, pushing prams or carrying shopping along tidy sidewalks. At first glance, the picture was unspectacular, peaceful, boring – but for the stab of unease caused by the sight of one of the pedestrians. He zoomed in on a face half hidden by a pair of sunglasses as much as the photo’s mediocre resolution allowed. It looked familiar yet he couldn’t be sure. The hair colour was different, but it had been dyed when he’d first seen the person. He took a closer look at the hand pointing over the shoulder in a relaxed gesture. Manicured, painted nails, the hand holding a smallish object. Car keys? Ah yes, there was a car nearby, lights flashing as apparently it was being locked via remote.

He zoomed out again to take in the architecture of the place. The city was not easy to determine at first glance. _Looks faintly European, brick-walled buildings, high, narrow windows, cast-iron fences. Georgian? No, must be later. Victorian. Somewhere in Britain, then? Roofs and windows look rather French, though, not British, but the building material is wrong. Not brick, idiot. Brownstone? US? New England? Interesting._ He smiled faintly to himself. This was definitely something to investigate further. One never knew when it might come in useful.

“I found the Hobnobs,” announced Arthur proudly, causing Sherlock to switch off his phone. “But then I remembered we have something much, much better. Tadaaa!”

Turning his head and looking up at the steward, Sherlock narrowly avoided being stabbed into the face by a bar of Toblerone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The direct quotes from _Sherlock_ -episodes used here were of course originally penned by Mess. Gatiss, Moffat and Thompson. I took them from Ariane DeVere's marvellous transcripts of the episodes which can be found [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/36505.html).
> 
> Much kudos to her for the amazingly detailed and extremely helpful work.
> 
> Again there's artwork for the chapter: ["Sherlock after the Fall: Flying"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/33790673586/sherlock-after-the-fall-flying-27th-in-my)


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur had already opened the Toblerone’s cardboard wrapping and peeled away some of the aluminium foil, revealing two ridges of brown chocolate.

“Better than biscuits, eh?” he asked, watching Sherlock expectantly. When he didn’t react to take the sweet immediately, Arthur waved the bar around a bit, perhaps to make it look more appealing.

Turning to him fully, Sherlock reached out and carefully broke off one ridge. Arthur beamed. “You can have more if you want. I’ve got plenty, and I can always buy new ones at Copenhagen Airport.” His face took on a worried expression. “I hope so, at least. Because at St. Petersburg they didn’t have any, any at all, can you imagine that? That was a disappointment. I mean, sometimes they don’t have the white or the dark ones. Or the very big ones you can hardly eat because the bits are so large and they’re so difficult to break off. But the brown ones you can get anywhere. Except St. Petersburg.”

Getting a ridge of chocolate for himself, Arthur took a seat across the aisle. “Ah, best chocolate ever,” he announced after taking a bite and closing his eyes. “I think it’s the honey and all those crunchy bits in it. And the shape, and the fact the peaks look like mountains. Do you like honey?”

Sherlock drew a deep breath. Apparently there was no way of getting rid of Arthur any time soon. And he had promised to be civil. Not that he was afraid of being tossed out of the plane in earnest. What he did take into account, though, was the possibility of Carolyn making his life unpleasant. Considering all the setbacks and unpleasantries he had suffered in the past two months, he decided that enduring a conversation with Arthur Shappey while sipping fairly decent Earl Grey and eating chocolate was the lesser of the evils. _Weevils. Why on earth am I thinking of weevils now? Must have been something John said or watched or read._ Closing his eyes briefly and trying to recall how people normally dealt with these situations, being civil and all that, he resigned himself to his fate.

“I like bees,” he offered, biting off the tip of the chocolaty ridge.

Arthur nodded happily. “Oh, they’re brilliant, aren’t they? Not long ago we had some on board, all the way from Australia. It’s because they’re still healthy there. Some beekeeper in England needed them because hers had all died. So sad.”

Sherlock nodded. He had followed the worldwide decrease of the bee population with great interest and even greater worry.

“Do you keep bees?” asked Arthur around a mouthful of toblerone.

“No. I think I’d like to, though, at some point.” _Should I survive all this and be welcomed back where I belong._

“Brilliant. Did you ever watch that show about a bee and her friends? It had this song at the beginning. I didn’t understand a word of it because it was all in German. Don’t remember the title, either. But the song went like this. I watched it during a holiday in Austria when I was a kid and sang it all the time.”

He hummed a melody which could have been any song. It did, however, sound vaguely familiar, reminding Sherlock of a two week stay at Kiel when he had been about six or seven. His mother had attended a conference at the local university. He recalled the city’s red brick architecture, the tall sail-ships on the Förde, and the solitary afternoons spent at the hotel watching television because he had already read all the books he had brought, and Mummy had been lecturing, and Mycroft had gone out with father, and he hadn’t been allowed to come along because on the second day of their stay he had stolen away to investigate the large brigg in the harbour, him wanting to become a pirate and needing his own ship after all. He’d crept on board and climbed into the rigging as far as the crow’s nest, much to the horror of the crew and his minder. As a punishment he had been grounded and forced to ward off boredom with watching television under the unceasing watch of his nanny – a challenge with only three channels, and all of them in German. Still, there had been a mildly interesting show about a troop of Vikings that at least had ships in it. It also featured a bright red-headed boy getting them out of all kinds of difficult situations with his quick wit and clever ideas. And then there had been the series Arthur was referring to. Since it had been dubbed, Sherlock hadn’t understood most of the dialogue, but the animated characters and their actions had been easy enough to follow. And the music had been catching indeed. The rhythm, the melody and the somewhat schmaltzy voice of the singer leapt into his mind and he groaned. There would be no getting rid of them for the next hour or so.

“ _Die Biene Maja,_ ” he said. “The theme song is by a Czech singer named Karel Gott.” _And thanks for causing the dratted song to play in a loop inside my brain now. Why on earth didn’t I delete it ages ago?_

Arthur’s eyes shone. “Yes, yes, that’s the one. Can you sing it?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. I daresay you’ve got a good voice for it. We should ask Douglas. He sings really well, although I don’t know if he knows the show. But it was brilliant, wasn’t it? I liked the grasshopper best. More chocolate?”

Sherlock broke off another piece. It was rather good, after all. When had he last eaten any sweets? Two occasions he recalled in vivid detail, one pleasant and one absolutely not. For some reason he had deleted neither.

The pleasant one had been only a few days prior to his Fall. John and he had been at Angelo’s. The reason Sherlock didn’t recall. It hadn’t been a post-case celebration, since he couldn’t remember any case he’d solved that day. Anyway, the doctor had not only persuaded him to eat half of his pizza and a large salad, but also more than half of the tiramisu Angelo had insisted on providing. They’d shared it over the obligatory candle. They’d walked home afterwards in companionable silence and Sherlock had played Vivaldi for John for what remained of the evening until his friend had fallen asleep on the couch, a slight smile on his face. Sherlock had spent about two hours sitting opposite him watching him quietly until he’d woken and retired to his bed. It had been … good.

The other instance had involved crème brûlée, expensive champagne and the last cigarette he’d smoked – and unless the craving for a fag became so strong as to overwhelm the negative associations connected with this smoke, he’d never touch a cigarette again in his life. Nor crème brûlée.

He had been at Monaco trying to obtain information from a South American drug lord very much involved in the running of Jim’s remaining empire. To acquire the hard drive stuffed full with important contact details of various other members of the organisation from the man’s safe, Sherlock had orchestrated an attempt at seduction, having found out about the criminal’s preferences during various meetings at Monte Carlo’s casinos and casual spying. The attempt, involving a romantic dinner on the deck of the target’s yacht and afore mentioned dessert, beverages and a shared cigarette, had failed spectacularly. Sherlock had found himself unable to pull through when things had started turning steamy. The touches and particularly the kisses had felt revoltingly intrusive and wrong. He had reasoned at the time that it was so because he’d never before let himself be touched that way, but he knew his inexperience and general disinterest in physical intimacy had not been the only reason. Anyway, the drugs he had administered the target in order to control the situation hadn’t worked properly. He hadn’t passed out according to plan, forcing Sherlock to have to endure his advances for far longer than he had anticipated. In the end, he had tried to knock the man out forcefully with the champagne bottle, had missed, the other had raised the alarm and Sherlock had fled, barely managing to escape with his life by a two mile swim back to Monaco harbour. In retrospect this had been the first of a list of failures, culminating in his capture at Frankfurt only days ago.

He closed his eyes for a moment as a shiver ran through him. The recollection of either event was painful and unwelcome, for different and yet related reasons. He could not help wondering whether his reaction would have been the same had John kissed him and ran his hands over his body. Not that it was likely he’d ever have the opportunity to find out. He should really try and delete both memories, and if that wasn’t possible, stay away from crème brûlée and other tastes and smells that might trigger them in the future.

“Are you okay, Mr. Sigerson?” Arthur’s tentative voice stirred him out of his musings. “Only you didn’t look okay just now. Should I fetch the dark Toblerone? It’s got dark chocolate, you know, and I heard there’s more of those happy-making substances in dark chocolate than in milk chocolate.”

“Phenylethylamine,” said Sherlock automatically.

“What?”

“That’s what the substance is called, one of them, anyway. Tryptophan is another.”

Arthur looked impressed. “That’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it? Anyway, you look like you could use it right now, the phen … pencil … phenyl-thingie.”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock.

Arthur cocked his head, frowning. “Why do people always say they’re fine when they aren’t? I mean, I may be a clot and all that, but I can tell you’re sad for some reason, and I bet that cut on your head hurts like hell.”

Sherlock sighed. “People say they’re fine because they don’t want to be asked about things that may bother them,” he explained. “They want to be left in peace.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “But that’s not very clever, is it? That way nobody can help them.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing other people can do.”

“Well, they can make tea, at least. Mum always says tea solves everything.” _So does Mrs Hudson._ “Do you want another cup?”

“Er, Arthur,” a voice sounded from the direction of the cockpit, followed immediately by the uniformed figure of Martin adjusting his cap, “may I remind you of the fact that your _pilots_ , the men in charge of keeping this aircraft aloft are sorely lacking the very beverage you just mentioned, and have been doing so since take off? Didn’t you hear the intercom?” 

“Sorry, Skip, I’m not sure it’s working properly. Mum said the degus might have damaged the speakers. Also, I was here most of the time talking to Mr Sigerson and forgot about the tea. Sorry about that. He isn’t as nasty as I thought at first, you see. He likes bees. And toblerone. Do you want some? I’ll leave it here while I fetch the tea, shall I?”

When the steward had left with Sherlock’s empty cup, Sherlock found Martin standing somewhat uncertainly between the first two seats, fiddling with the gold-braided cuffs of his jacket. Again he was fascinated by the similarities in their facial features, despite their bearing and background being so different.

Martin seemed to be debating with himself whether to start a conversation, visibly steeling himself to speak up. “I … uh … I think I should apologise for what happened earlier,” he finally managed to utter. “I was just so surprised.”

“You weren’t the only one. Therefore, an apology is unnecessary,” replied Sherlock.

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Still, it’s … I’m not normally so …”

“Awkward?” _Actually, I would say you are_ , added Sherlock in thought.

“Yes. No.” He drew himself up slightly. “I mean, I’m the Captain.”

Sherlock thought he could hear the capitalisation and raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Must be very demanding, to captain an aeroplane and run a removal firm in your no doubt scare spare time. That requires quite some organisational skill, I would imagine. Heavy set of drawers, was it, the last delivery?”

Martin blanched and then frowned. “How did you … Arthur told you, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t. Your build, hands and the state of your uniform, however, do.” While he was speaking, a tiny alarm bell started to tingle in his brain, accompanied by a familiar voice. _Bit not good_ , it said. But he didn’t heed it, caught up in the flow of the deduction that was itching to be voiced. God, he hadn’t done this for ages, not out loud, only ever in his mind. And only now he realised how much he had missed it. John had been right, John and all the others: he _was_ a show off. And having been forced to function without an audience, appreciative or not, for so long, he now leapt at the chance of exercising his skill regardless of the potential fall out. Like a dam breaking, his deduction gushed forth, barely interrupted by breathing.

“You’re a pilot, which means that basically you spend a lot of time sitting. Yet your build despite naturally being quite slight and slender suggests physical activity. Your arms, shoulders and thighs in particularly indicate exercise. Not cardiovascular training like running or cycling, but weight training. Now, you don’t look like someone who’d visit a gym regularly, and your fair skin shows you’re not spending a lot of time outside doing outdoor work like gardening or chopping firewood. So where do you get your muscles from? Some occupation that requires heavy lifting, obviously. Could be passengers’ baggage, but this airplane only seats sixteen and you don’t seem to be transporting this number of people on a regular basis. The same goes for cargo. Moreover you’re the captain as you don’t fail to point out at every available opportunity, you wouldn’t help load and unload the aircraft. So what is it you do? There your hands come in. Their skin looks rough, they’ve been dirty and have been scrubbed several times to get rid of some persistent staining. Your knuckles have been scraped against a rough surface, wall, most likely. There are faint traces of welts were something cut into the skin but didn’t break it, a cable or string maybe, or the sharp corner of a heavy object – I’d have to see them up close to be certain. On your right middle finger you recently acquired a splinter. Wood is the likeliest material. You tried to remove it with your left hand, but being right handed you made a bit of a mess of it, tearing the skin. Again, nothing indicates you work with wood outside. Carpenter? Home improvement DIY? Unlikely, because there’s also your uniform to consider. Not new but well kept, particularly the hat and jacket. The captain’s epaulets have been transferred from an older one to this, meaning you weren’t able to afford new ones. You’re short on money. Unless you have debts, a captain’s salary, even at a small airline like this one, should be more than sufficient to support a single man. But given the unusual hierarchy of this company, with an older, clearly more able and experienced officer as number two and you, a young man with a doubtful track record of piloting skills as the highest ranking officer, you must have offered Mrs Knapp-Shappey something to make you captain instead of your colleague. The most obvious reason is that you were willing to work for less money than everybody else, so little, in fact, that you can’t make a living from what you earn here alone, if at all. Ergo, you have to work in another job in order to support yourself. Some job with temporal flexibility so you can take commissions around your working hours in the cockpit. Some kind of freelance job, then. It also includes heavy lifting, predominantly of wooden objects, which require carrying over considerable distances and through narrow spaces like staircases and corridors where scuffed shoes, marks on trousers’ legs where heavy objects rested before they were lifted up again, and scraped hands are almost inevitable. Removal firm, obvious.

He ended, finally drawing breath, then focused on Martin again. The pilot was standing very still. Sherlock tried to read his expression and to what degree he had undoubtedly insulted the other, but Martin didn’t look angry or even annoyed.

“How did you know about the drawers,” he managed at last.

“Lucky guess,” admitted Sherlock.

“Oh, okay. There was a table, too, you know. And four chairs and an armchair. And a couple of crates with porcelain.”

“There’s always something,” muttered Sherlock, fighting down a smile. Oh, how he had missed this. He drew another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as the memory of John’s face full of admiration appeared before his inner eye. He missed that, too, more than he could bear.

“How do you do that?” Martin’s tentative but eager question caused him to turn to the pilot again. “That was … impressive. Carolyn said you were a journalist, but this skill would certainly be more useful if you were, say, a detective. Like the one that died in London in the summer. Douglas told me about it. It was all over the papers, apparently. He also did all those deductions. There was even a blog about his cases. Did you hear about him? He committed suicide in the end.”

Sherlock took a calming breath, fighting down his alarm and searching for evidence of recognition in Martin’s face. But the captain looked only interested in his reply. “Yes, I heard about it. A … colleague of mine was closely involved in the matter.”

“Oh, did they write an article, too?”

Sherlock’s head twitched in what could have been both a nod and a shake. _He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him_. “He wrote a short piece, yes.”

“Not one of those articles condemning him as a fraud, I hope? Because from what I heard, I think he must have been genuine. Helping all those people and being so brilliant about it. Even Douglas seemed pretty impressed. And now you’ve shown that it is possible to deduce things from strangers. You really should write an article to defend that detective. I mean, he obviously did some good, and now he’s died in disgrace. Who knows what made him kill himself. He must have been pretty desperate.”

 _You have no idea._ “Yes, maybe I should,” said Sherlock quietly around a sudden lump in his throat, silently wishing the other would shut up and leave. The conversation had conjured up memories he had believed buried so deep that only a major earthquake (or the emotional simile) could unearth them, but here they were, raw and painful like on that horrible day at Bart’s. Absently, he ran his left hand over his right wrist where he thought he could still feel John’s touch lingering like a burning trail, until the doctor’s hand had been pried away from his own limp one – the last contact they’d had and might ever have, depending on how things developed.

Sherlock swallowed, barely catching Martin’s words.

“It must be good, working as a journalist. Travelling the world and seeing something more than just airports, dealing with important people, staying at good hotels, all that.”

“It also has disadvantages: tight deadlines, bitchy editors, unreliable photographers. And not all hotels are good. 

“Still, you’re your own master, in a way,” Martin said wistfully.

Sherlock fixed him in a stern glance. “Why are you complaining? Aren’t you now what you’ve always wanted to be, captain of an aircraft? You managed to gain this post despite all adversities, like failing your CPL several times.”

“Yes, but—”

“You work in a profession you enjoy. If was up to you, you’d do nothing but fly the entire day. Despite still struggling with projecting the authority you think you should as a captain, nevertheless it’s _you_ with four stripes on his arm and not your colleague Douglas, whom you secretly envy for his piloting skills, his experience and not the least his easy confidence and his success with women. So where’s your problem? You have people surrounding you who like you despite your failures. Yes, so there occurs the occasional tiff between colleagues or discussions with your boss. There are Douglas’ attempts at belittling your status. But deep down, you like it, and you would be nowhere else. In a way, you have found a replacement family in the other members of this airline, like they have found in you. You should be content – happy and grateful, even –, because not many can count on that kind of support. Tell me, would you rather be here, or on some anonymous first or second officer post at a major airline where you can count yourself lucky when the cabin crew recall your name? Here, I bet they know precisely how you take your tea.”

Martin swallowed, staring at him. Sherlock realised he had spoken much more forcefully than he had intended. “I … I never looked at it that way.”

“Then do. And stop complaining.”

There was a clatter of a tray, and Arthur shuffled into view. “Oh, Martin, Douglas told me to tell you he’s missing his Captain in the cockpit. Also here’s your tea. Two milks and two sugars.”

Martin looked at Arthur, at the tea, at Sherlock, and back at Arthur. “Yes, right,” he muttered. Carefully lifting the tea off the tray, he gazed at it again. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said.

Turning to Sherlock, his freckled face split into a soft, almost disbelieving smile. “To you as well. I guess.” Martin made a swaying motion with his hand before remembering that it was holding a rather full cup of tea, some of which sloshed onto the saucer. “I … I’ll be off, then.” Adjusting his hat and pulling back his shoulders a little, he strutted off – or rather moved in what might have been a strut but for the slight swaying of the aircraft and the fact he was carefully balancing his drink.

Sherlock sank back into his seat while Arthur set another cup of tea in front of him, followed by a plate containing a massive slice of hot apple-pie submerged in custard. Sherlock’s stomach rumbled when the scent hit his nostrils.

“Mum said you looked like you needed cake,” said Arthur. “I told her about the Toblerone and she said chocolate was all fine, but you needed cake, too. Lots of it. So here it is. Cake. Oh, and _she_ put it in the microwave, so you needn’t be worried.” 

“I—,” Sherlock began, about to say he didn’t want cake. His stomach rumbled again. When had he last had a warm meal? Or a meal at all? The last thing he remembered eating was the _Laugenbretzel_ he had grabbed at the station, but had that been this morning or the previous day? “Thank you,” he told Arthur, who beamed happily. 

“There’s more, if you want.”

“I’m sure this will be sufficient.”

Arthur nodded, but didn’t leave. Sherlock sighed. Was there ever going to be a minute’s peace on this flight?

“You don’t have to hurry,” said Arthur. “We’ll be in the air a bit longer until we can land at Copenhagen. They’re a bit busy there, it appears. Oh, and I heard what you told Martin. When you deducted him, I mean.”

“Deduced.”

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, reaching for his tea for a sip. “It’s ‘deduced’, not ‘deducted’. It’s nothing to do with maths.”

“Ah, right. But I heard it. And it was brilliant! Like that detective.”

“Yes, I know.”

“No, not the dead one, the other.”

“What other?”

“Miss Marple.”

Sherlock almost choked on his tea. He set down his cup, pressed a hand to his mouth and began to chuckle. Arthur looked startled for a moment, then joined in despite looking somewhat puzzled at the reaction. The laughter had startled Sherlock as well, and for an instant he had fought to suppress it. No chance. It shot forth like boiling water from a test tube filled to the brim. Burying his face in the crook of his elbow he laughed, his shoulders heaving. When had he last laughed like this? Giggled shamelessly about something? Certainly not in the past months. There’d been nothing to laugh about, nobody to giggle with. And he’d missed it, more than he ever thought he would.

Raising his head and drawing several deep breaths, he calmed himself down. Arthur was eyeing him with a trace of suspicion.

“You’re sure you’re fine?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he said gravely, honestly. “I haven’t been for months, and I won’t be for a while, maybe never again depending on how things go. But you managed the impossible and made me laugh despite all that. So … thank you, I guess. For the laugh, and the talk, the chocolate and the cake. I didn’t know I needed all that, but it seems I did. Whatever I said about the service on this aircraft, I take it back. It’s most excellent. You can tell that to your mother, too.”

Arthur waved a hand and grinned, his face flushed by the compliment. “Oh, she’s eavesdropping anyway so she’ll know. Thank you, sir. I take back what I said about you being nasty, too. You’re strange, but you’re not as bad as my dad or Mr Birling.” He waved his arms a little, apparently not knowing what else to say. “Okay, well. I must look after my pilots now,” he then muttered and sauntered off.

Half expecting yet another member of the airline to show up and chat with him, Sherlock looked around. He was alone in the cabin. It felt almost wrong, but he decided to grab his chance to at least eat the cake while it was warm. As he took the first forkful, glancing at his battered reflection in the window, he couldn’t help admiring Arthur’s unquenchable cheerfulness. If he’d told the steward of his dilemma, he was sure the young man would have had a solution on hand, would have told him not to worry. Of course John would forgive him, and if not right away, then surely a cup or tea or two or a piece of chocolate would mend things between them. If only Sherlock were as confident as Arthur Shappey …

 

**- <o>-**

 

Their landing was delayed by only about half an hour, plus another fifteen minutes of taxiing to the parking position. When Sherlock stood to retrieve his jacket and bag from the overhead locker, Carolyn stepped to him.

“You did well,” she told him in the quiet but stern voice of a strict teacher lauding a difficult pupil. “Arthur’s been completely taken by your compliment, wouldn’t shut up about it. And something’s happened to Martin, too. _He_ landed the plane, you know, not Douglas. Insisted on trying. Best landing he’s ever managed. No corrections, no bumps, no having to pull up again because of a wrong angle. Textbook. Even for Douglas it would have been an impressive feat under these weather conditions. So whatever you told him, it was … good.” 

“You know what I told him. You heard every word.”

She had the decency to blush a little. “Yes. Well. It _is_ a small plane, after all.”

He smiled, donning the jacket and suppressing a wince as the heavy fabric settled on his injuries. “So it is. I meant what I told Arthur. Both the thanks and the apology.”

She nodded, handing him a business card. “Do take care of yourself, young man. If you want to listen to one with a few more years of life behind her, things don’t usually end up as bleak and desperate as they may look at the time. If ever you need our services again …” She nodded at the card. “If you need more cheering, I recommend having a look at our website. Arthur designed it.”

“Yes, I did,” piped up Arthur from the direction of the door, looking proud. Sherlock and Carolyn exchanged a glance. “The shuttle is here, Mr Sigerson.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

There was a strong, gusty wind smelling of the nearby sea when Sherlock stepped out of the plane and began to descend the stairs, automatically turning up the collar of his pea-coat. He felt a strange reluctance to leave the warm interior of the aircraft to face the dark coldness outside, and knew this had little to do with the actual temperatures. For the first time in what must be weeks he didn’t feel hungry, full of cake as he was. And it wasn’t just the cake and tea. The time with MJN had reminded him almost painfully of the comforts of 221B he’d cherished – not enough when he still had them, he now knew. Adjusting the strap of the bag over his shoulder, he drew a deep breath. Better not dwell on those things, not when there was still so much to do.

“Mr Sigerson, wait.” There was the clanging of metal steps, just when Sherlock had reached the wet tarmac and was heading towards the shuttle. Turning, he saw the entire crew of MJN Air descend from the plane, an excited Arthur in the lead. 

“There’s something you’ll need,” the steward called, coming forward while the other three waited at a little distance. Sherlock suspected they had come along to have another look at him, particularly Douglas who was scrutinising him with unveiled curiosity, looking thoughtful until a shrewd light ignited in his eyes, visible even over the distance and in the poor lighting of the position lamps. Sherlock recalled what Martin had mentioned earlier. Something about the First Officer’s look told him that Douglas wasn’t buying his cover anymore. Apparently he had needed some more visual proof to validate his theory, proof Sherlock now had delivered. He knew who he really was, Sherlock was sure of it.

Fixing the pilot in a sharp glance, he gave a tiny shake of head. Douglas stiffened momentarily but then relaxed again. He seemed to be thinking for a moment, perhaps deciding if keeping the secret would be more profitable than blabbing about it. Raising his arm, he tipped his head in a brief salute, which caused Martin to spin round and gaze at him confusedly.

Meanwhile Arthur had approached Sherlock and was standing in front of him, looking up at him expectantly while holding something wrapped in a plastic bag. The shape told Sherlock all he needed to know about the contents, nevertheless Arthur withdrew it and presented it to him.

“In case they don’t have any at the airport like at St. Petersburg,” said Arthur. “Whenever you’re not … well … fine, you’ll need this. It has extra pen … phennel … wait, I can get this right.” He bit his lip, frowning deeply, then drawing a deep breath, “Phe-nyl-e-thy-la-mine,” he enunciated carefully.

Gazing at Sherlock expectantly after he had finished, his face split into a broad smile when the other gave an approving nod. “Thanks for the Toblerone, Arthur. I’ll put it to good use.”

“Brilliant,” exclaimed Arthur. “Bye.”

Stepping back to the others, he waved farewell enthusiastically while the rest of MJN Air watched Sherlock as he gave them another nod of thanks. When he turned to walk to the shuttle, the corners of his mouth lifted in an involuntary smile. He deposited the gift in his bag, his smile turning grim. Dark chocolate for dark times ahead. Undoubtedly he would need it, sooner, most likely, than he appreciated. However, if he managed to survive those trials, he hoped there would be other times when a white bar of toblerone would be just fine, or when a tiramisu shared over a candle would be the only sweet required to cheer him up.

Giving the bag a quick pat, he stepped into the shuttle.

 

 **- < _end_** **> -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, yeah. Thanks a lot to all those who left comments and kudos.
> 
> There are sequels to this story: [_Over Ground and Under Ground_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/649188) (Sherlock's return to London), [_Over Stair and Under Stair_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/702144/chapters/1294505) (His return to 221B), and [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977) (dealing with John and Sherlock some months after their reunion). I'm also thinking about writing another story set during Sherlock's Post-Reichenbach adventures that involves the Woman, and which will more or less take up the action where _Over Cloud and Under Cloud_ ends. 
> 
>  
> 
> Again there is fanart for this chapter: "[Receiving](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/42374681136/sherlock-after-the-fall-receiving-ii-34th-in)" and "[Parting](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/40128748717/sherlock-after-the-fall-parting-31st-in-my)".

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with my fics, there's be fanart at my tumblr, tagged [#over cloud and under cloud](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/over+cloud+and+under+cloud). The drawings are also part of my larger series of artworks entitled ["Sherlock after the Fall"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/after-the-fall).


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